


A Dangerous Game

by magicalyoyo



Series: A Heart Beats At Night [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxious Otabek, April Fools' Day, Gen, LLF Comment Project, Pranks, rated t for cussing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-13 20:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10521141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalyoyo/pseuds/magicalyoyo
Summary: Three times Otabek (semi)successfully pranks Yuri, one time Yuri gets him back, and one time it all goes wrong (but turns out okay in the end).Technically a prequel, but stands alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW: arachnophobia
> 
> Note - this story stands alone, but it was written to also act as a sort of prequel to my story [**A Heart Beats At Night**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9342170). HOWEVER, no knowledge of Heart is necessary for this! You'll just get some cool backstory/character development if you're following both.

In retrospect, Otabek appearing on a motorcycle and spiriting Yuri away from a horde of enthusiastic fans was one of his less surprising moments.

If he were to rank the walking conundrum’s actions from ‘unanticipated’ to ‘what the actual _fuck,_ ’ Yuri would need a lot of paper.

To put it simply, Otabek Altin had a knack for the unexpected.

The DJ thing? That was pretty far up there.

The first time he showed up in a soft knitted cardigan (that could have come straight from Nikolai Plisetsky’s closet) instead of his leather jacket, Yuri’s jaw had about hit the floor.

The discovery that _not only_ could Otabek pick locks, but that he would do so if the vending machine stole his change was probably – _probably –_ in the top ten.

It wasn’t exactly a shock when Otabek moved his home rink from Almaty to St. Petersburg after his coach’s retirement. The best sixteenth birthday present Yuri could have asked for? Yes. Surprising? Not really. The fact was that if a figure skater spoke Russian and was _good,_ and not just in technical skills, but if they had a spark of something uniquely theirs that was reflected in the ice, they would train under Yakov at some point. A summer camp, an intensive seminar, or even – very rarely – an indefinite position, if they were lucky enough to catch his interest.

However, the consequences of living in the same city were nothing Yuri could have predicted.

Who would have guessed that the Hero of Kazakhstan had such a propensity for practical jokes?

           

:: :: ::

 

            Yuri stared at the shoelaces dangling from the ceiling above his bed. Then he looked over at Otabek, who was to all appearances completely absorbed in his book as he sat on the air mattress they’d crammed into the corner the night before – because of _course_ Otabek would be that asshole who woke up at eight in the morning after a sleepover.

            His eyes returned to the shoes, which were neatly paired and lined up, the soles apparently stuck fast to the ceiling of his room in Lilia’s house.

            “Beka.”

            Otabek didn’t look away from his book, but Yuri could see the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought back a grin. “Yes, Yura?”

            “My shoes are on the ceiling.” A sneaker peeled off and dropped to the floor with a thump, punctuating his sentence.

            “So they are,” Otabek replied, turning slightly pink with the effort of maintaining a neutral expression.

            “Why are you like this?” Yuri sighed with exasperation. Otabek giggled. A sandal fell, missing him by centimeters, and they both lifted their eyes. “Uh, what did you use to glue them?”

            “A special adhesive, I didn’t want to damage the paint.” A boot swung loosely from its heel. “Do you think we should-“

            To reach the door, Yuri and Otabek would have to traverse the minefield of footwear. Their eyes met, and they both dove under Yuri’s bed as the shoes began to rain down in earnest.

            “Why did you even-“ A drift of dust puffed from the carpet, and Yuri sneezed, the sound deafeningly loud in the tight, airless space. “ _How?_ ”

            “You’re a sound sleeper,” he replied. “And Lilia lent me a stepladder.”

            “Lilia- she- you asked _Lilia_ for help?” Yuri sputtered, smacking the back of his head into the bedframe as he sat up in shock. “Ow, fuck.”

            “You good?”  
            “I’m good. Shit. But seriously? Lilia Ivanovna Baranovskaya?”

            “Well, yeah, I didn’t want to get murdered if it damaged her house.” Otabek ran his fingers across his undercut. The _thunk_ of impacts had trailed off. “You’re not mad, are you?”

            “What? No.” Yuri smirked. “I don’t do mad, I do revenge.”

            “That’s a boldfaced lie and you know it.” He shoved Yuri’s shoulder lightly. “Do you think it’s safe now?”

            They peered out from underneath the bed. Otabek inched forward and craned his neck, trying to get a clear view of the potential dangers lurking above.

            A shoe smacked him in the side of the face, and he rubbed his cheek as Yuri laughed, progressing from a snicker to a cackle to a hissing, airless wheeze as he collapsed to the ground.

            “You- you brought this on yourself, Beka,” he gasped between giggles.

 

            :: :: ::

 

            Otabek’s undercut was a damn _menace_ , Yuri decided, eyeing the back of his friend’s head through the back of the airplane seats. The buzzed hairs shimmered, and maybe it was that they were on hour two of the half-day flight to the Grand Prix Final in Japan, and his phone was dead, and not only was Yuri’s seat a row behind Otabek’s, but Otabek had the fucking nerve to fall asleep during takeoff before Yuri could bully someone into switching with him.

            So maybe it was the fact that Yuri was so bored that his brain was about to melt out of his ears, or that sitting next to random strangers wasn’t his idea of a good time. Possibly it was both, combined with his discovery that the short part of Otabek’s hair wasn’t actually bristly like it looked but felt more like starched velvet, or the sleek black fluff of his cat’s nose on a tiny spot right between her eyes.

            A discovery that had, to Otabek’s continuing dismay, led to Yuri’s growing fascination (obsession) with his hair. It seemed that his friend’s astounding patience for Yuri’s antics had finally reached an end.

            “Stop that,” Otabek grumbled as Yuri’s fingers brushed against the back of his head.

            Or _maybe_ it was that the mischievous gleam in Otabek’s dark eyes had sparked to life again, and Yuri _knew_ that he was planning something, and so Otabek deserved to suffer with him.

            Yuri sank back into his seat. “Sorry,” he muttered, without a hint of remorse.

            The movies on this flight were all shit. So was the music. Yuri watched the flight map for a few minutes, trying to trick himself into believing the little cartoon plane had moved, until his eyes flicked back to Otabek.

            Surely he’d fallen back asleep by now. Or was this his plan the whole time, the sneaky bastard, to make Yuri stare at that _fucking undercut_ for twelve hours, squirming as it taunted him? He leaned forward-

            “ _Yuri.”_

            Shit.

            “Fine,” he huffed, throwing himself back against the headrest. The kid – okay, he looked a bit older than Yuri’s sixteen years, but Yuri was sure that this flight had already aged him by several decades and he’d need a walker by the time they landed in Japan – flinched as Yuri growled to himself.

            If he just touched the longer strands on top, there’s no way Otabek would notice, right?

            “Yuri Plisetsky, if you wake me up again I am going to throw you out of this airplane,” said Otabek, standing up and leaning over the back of his seat. Yuri ducked his head.

“Sorry, Beka.” He meant it this time, remembering Otabek’s previous comments about his distaste for flying, despite crossing the globe multiple times per year. “I’ll stop now.”

Otabek sighed and cleared his throat to catch the attention of the boy sitting next to Yuri. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” he said, switching to English, “but would you be willing to switch seats with me?”

               “Excuse me?” He blinked at the stilted, formal request, not completely following the awkward rush of English. Otabek flushed slightly, and Yuri stared pointedly between his spot, which was sandwiched between the two more desirable locations, and Otabek’s window seat. “Ah, okay. Sure.”

               Otabek dropped into his new seat and turned to Yuri.

               “Yeah, yeah, I’ll let you sleep-“

               Instead, Otabek grabbed both of Yuri’s hands and put them on either side of his head. His dark eyes froze Yuri where he sat.

               “You have thirty seconds,” Otabek sighed. “Get it out of your system.”

               This… this was a _blessing._ He rubbed his palms gleefully across the velvety black bristles of Otabek’s hair. No one in the history of the world had ever been as lucky as Yuri was at that moment.

The thirty seconds passed too quickly, and Yuri pouted as Otabek peeled his hands away again.

“Better?”

Yuri nodded. “Can I have your phone? My charger was gate-checked.”

“Only if I get your pillow.” They traded. “Wake me up when food happens?”

Otabek was asleep again within minutes, and Yuri took the opportunity to steal his armrest. The stifling, claustrophobic, mind-numbing boredom had been successfully subdued by shitty (yet overpriced) internet access and the sensory miracle that was Otabek’s hair, and he was starting to think that he might survive to see his second Grand Prix.

If, that is, the anticipation didn’t get to him first. Not for the competition itself – Yuri wasn’t immune to the pressure that left all the skaters snarling and snapping at each other in the days leading up to the opening event, but he relished the electric buzz of adrenaline that hummed through his veins, allowing him to push his body to new extremes.

_If Otabek’s joke wasn’t tormenting me with his undercut…_

And of course, it wouldn’t have been. He’d never be satisfied with something so simple.

 _What the_ fuck _are you planning, Altin?_

He was going to foil Otabek’s plot this time. Otabek was always too keyed up before competitions to carry out any complicated schemes, and he was careful not to distract either of them right before they skated, so it would either fall the night after their short programs or post-banquet. But he couldn’t be too careful.

Yuri went over the preparations in his mind. It would have to take place at the hotel – Otabek was cunning but not spontaneous, and relied on controlling every element of a situation. Yakov had confirmed that the hotel used keycards, unlike some of the ancient ( _quaint,_ Mila insisted) monstrosities they’d ended up with in the past that still used actual keys. Yuri had learned his lesson when he tried to shut Otabek out of his own apartment as a joke, and Otabek had simply _picked the fucking lock._ A skill which, to Yuri’s everlasting dismay, Otabek refused to teach him or even explain where he’d picked it up.

Although his room had a balcony, it was safely on the fifteenth floor, and he’d already confirmed that none of the skaters Otabek was friends with had booked any of the adjacent rooms. Some might say he was being paranoid. After all, there’s no way the stoic, down-to-earth Hero of Kazakhstan would Spiderman his way across the front of a hotel in the middle of Nagoya, they’d insist.

To which Yuri would reply, _bullshit._

So really, all he had to do was prevent Otabek (and Mila, and the American skater Leo, and all the hotel staff because Otabek could be startlingly persuasive if he had a reason to overcome his social anxiety) from gaining unsupervised access to his room for the week.

Easy.

Yuri was beginning to regret his impulsive decision to replace Otabek’s deodorant with cream cheese (and he would _not_ admit that he almost broke his phone when Otabek sent him a photo of a perfectly toasted bagel the next morning, simply captioned ‘thanks for breakfast.’)

 

The next few days were a _struggle._

“Yura, I think I forgot my coat in your room,” Otabek said, shivering dramatically and hugging his bare arms as they stepped out of the hotel. “I’ll run back and get it and meet you all at the restaurant?”

“Okay, sure,” replied Yuri, reaching automatically for his room key, but stopped himself. “You _asshole._ ”

“You never trust me.” No one should be able to pull off puppy eyes without moving a single muscle in their face. “I’m just cold.”

“Should have thought of that before.” Yuri smirked. “You’re slipping, Beka.”

He pulled his own hoodie off anyway. The shivers weren’t feigned – it was well above freezing, but despite spending most of his life in Kazakhstan, Canada, and fucking _Russia,_ Otabek had the cold tolerance of a tropical reptile.

“Are you sure-“

“Take the damn jacket and shut up.”

 

“Let’s watch a movie tonight,” said Otabek. “My entire body is jelly.”

Yuri, lying facedown on the floor, mumbled his agreement into the carpet of the hotel lobby as they waited for their food to be delivered. The short programs had been brutal.

“Can I invite Mila? She’s pretty upset about her fall.”

“Thought she had plans with that Italian skater.”

“Uh, let me ask.” Otabek sent a quick text. “She says she can’t go on a date after eating ice in front of the entire world and the love of her life.”

“Then sure, whatever.”

“I’ll tell her to meet at your room, Yura?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

 

Yuri left the gala as early as he could, slinking off to sulk in his room and curse the ISU, JJ, and JJ’s entire bloodline. He’d ended up in fourth place, which _sucked,_ even though he knew it was because Yakov and Lilia had bullied him into lowering his base difficulty to decrease the risk of injury before the Olympics in February. He felt a slight twinge of guilt of abandoning Otabek and his silver medal alone to face the overenthusiastic sponsors, but for all the good-natured teasing between them, losing still _hurt._

He relished his one small victory, though. Yuri had blocked all of Otabek’s attempts to prank him, and the growing pout on his friend’s face was a reward in itself. He fell asleep early, letting his aching muscles and ego relax into the soft bed.

When Yuri woke up, the blankets felt heavy and tight against his body. He groaned, trying to roll over and stretch the post-competition stiffness from his joints, but remained flat on his back.

His eyes flew open as a camera _click-whirred_ nearby. Otabek snickered, and Yuri’s eyes fell to the bed, which was completely covered in clear plastic.

Yuri was saran wrapped to his mattress.

“How the actual _fuck-“_ He squirmed, trying to escape the cocoon that encased him from shoulders to toes- “You’re gonna tell me how you got in here, and then I’m going to murder you.”

“I used the door.” A year’s supply of smugness was packed into Otabek’s raised eyebrow. He raised his phone again, just in time to film Yuri’s stream of profanities. “Finished?”

“Okay, fine,” Yuri growled. “Get me out of here.”

Otabek obliged, pulling a pair of scissors from his pocket and quickly cutting Yuri free from the plastic wrap.

“If this was your plan the whole time, what the hell was with trying to get into my room all week?”

“Wanted to keep you on your toes,” said Otabek with a shrug.

“And I repeat, how the actual fuck? My door was locked! The balcony is barred! There’s not even any space under the bed!”

“Mila, Leo, and Sara picked up the frame so I could wrap it. You completely slept through that part. As for the door…” Otabek removed a card from his jacket pocket and flipped it between his fingers. “Not a problem.”

“I- you- what?” Yuri checked his bedside table – his own key was still lying next to the lamp, untouched from last night. “Explain.”

“Hmm,” sighed Otabek. “No.”

“You’re a dead man.”

“Then you’ll never find out.”

“You need a new hobby.”

“I was thinking about trying the bagpipes.”

“I take it back,” Yuri said, horrified by the thought. “Buy me breakfast. You owe me for this.”

 

            :: :: ::

 

Having his own apartment was a dream come true for Yuri. He steadfastly refused to move back into the dorms, but staying with Lilia had become intolerably stifling.

So, two months after his seventeenth birthday, Yuri officially moved into a one-bedroom flat near the rink.

It was tiny, compared to Lilia’s extravagant house. The sofa was too long for the cramped living room, one end jutting into the kitchenette, and he had to move the desk that had double duty as a dining table and counter space into his bedroom if more than one person visited at a time, but it was _his._ No more judging stares from Lilia when he didn’t change out of his pajamas for his entire off day, no more wandering into the kitchen to find his coaches making uncomfortably intimate eye contact, and it didn’t matter if he remembered to clean the bathroom every week or not.

Yuri’s cat loved it too. She had free reign, as Yuri didn’t have the heart to deny her access beyond putting a childproof latch on the cabinet he kept cleaning supplies in, and he would often come home to find her lounging on the kitchen counter or curled up in a cabinet.

It was also a mere ten minute walk to Otabek’s apartment. Yuri wasn’t sure this was a good thing.

He staggered into the kitchen on shaking legs after practice. It was the day of his weekly private training session with both Yakov and Lilia, and the combination of their sadism and Yuri’s recent growth spurt meant that he could barely drag himself out of the rink once they were done with him.

Yuri pried open the fridge, studiously ignoring last week’s (or last month’s, he wasn’t sure) leftovers. That was a problem for another day. Instead, he grabbed a jug of orange juice and tipped it back to drink directly from the carton, desperate to raise his blood sugar before he melted into a heap on the linoleum. The liquid sprayed across the kitchen as Yuri spat it out with a curse.

Instead of juice, he’d gotten a mouthful of vaguely milky, yellowish water.

Yuri narrowed his eyes and checked the door of his apartment. As suspected, his spare key, hidden on the top edge of the frame, was slightly out of place and clear of dust. The several centimeters of height Yuri had gained over the past year and a half meant that he could reach up with ease, but Otabek was reduced to undignified hops if he wanted to get his hands on the key – and he never managed to put it back in _quite_ the same spot afterwards.

 _That fucker._ He pictured Otabek watching his phone, anticipating Yuri’s profanity- and threat-laced call, before remembering that Otabek’s own one-on-one intensive with Yakov was scheduled directly after Yuri’s.

He returned to the refrigerator and eyed the chocolate milk warily before taking a wary sip. It hadn’t been noticeably tampered with; Yuri assumed it was too hard to fake.

An hour and a half until Otabek got out of practice.

Yuri jumped in the shower, taking the bottle of milk with him (another thing Lilia wouldn’t tolerate in her house) and threw on street clothes, putting in perhaps slightly more effort than was required to visit his best friend as he braided his hair and double-checked that his jeans were acceptably clean.

Orange juice in hand, he set out towards Otabek’s apartment.

After twenty minutes, a bit of judicious container-swapping, one instance of hiding Otabek’s carton of chocolate milk in the back of the freezer, and several deep breaths as Yuri tried to get his anticipatory giggles under control, he was ready to go. He also found, hidden in the back of the fridge in several pitchers, what he assumed was _his_ orange juice.

Otabek returned half an hour later to find Yuri sprawled across his couch.

“Hey, Yura.” To anyone else, Otabek sounded as calm as always, but Yuri could hear the faint traces of disappointment in his voice.

“I drank all your milk,” Yuri said in lieu of a greeting.

“Hard practice?”

“I’m pretty sure I actually died. Didn’t wanna walk all the way back to my place.” It was a fair excuse; Yuri often crashed at Otabek’s apartment for an hour or so after training (though only partly because it was a kilometer closer to the rink than his own flat, and he flatly refused to take the bus unless the weather was truly horrible).

He heard the fridge door open, but didn’t look up. Although he was loathe to miss this, Yuri knew that if he was watching Otabek, his expression would give him away.

The sound of a plastic cup hitting the floor and Otabek’s muffled gag, however, was everything he could have hoped for.

 

:: :: ::

 

Spiders, Yuri believed, were creepy little fuckers who had no business existing on this planet, much less in his locker room. He kept his eyes focused on the intruder, which was making its way up the wall beside the light switch.

Otabek finished drying off his skates and stood up, pausing when he caught sight of Yuri’s curled lip, following his gaze.

“Hey, little guy,” he said, grabbing a towel from the bench. “You shouldn’t be in here, you’ll get squished.”

Yuri suppressed a shudder, torn between relief and embarrassment as Otabek carefully trapped the spider and brought it outside. If he’d been alone, Yuri would be free to smash it, obsessively check his shoes and skates, and succumb to the heebie jeebies for a few minutes, but there was no way he was going to Otabek see-

“Are you scared of spiders?” Otabek came back, folding the towel and replacing it on the bench.

“Of course not. They’re just bugs.” Yuri’s eye twitched.

He spent the next month cursing himself for that moment. So far, his two-year campaign of hiding his dislike of arachnids from Otabek had succeeded in preserving his pride without any negative effects. However, apparently Otabek had interpreted _‘they’re just bugs’_ as _‘please show me pictures of spiders you think are cool.’_

Because naturally _Otabek_ wouldn’t be scared of spiders. Nooo. He _liked_ them, with their too many legs and too many eyes and weird bulbous bodies.

“Hey, Yura,” he’d say, holding his phone up, staring at him expectantly, and Yuri would bite his tongue before glancing over and muttering _yeah, cool, what kind is it._

If it had been anyone other than Otabek, he would have told them exactly where they could shove their fucking spiders, and then proceeded to have nightmares over _that_ mental image for the next week. But this was Beka, and the little flutter in Yuri’s chest when Otabek smiled his not-actually-a-smile with one corner of his lips and that sparkle in his eyes outweighed even the grossness of bugs.

Besides, maybe this would help him get over it once and for all. Or possibly he’d manage to overcome his pride and admit that he thought spiders were awful, because he knew that Otabek wouldn’t actually give him any shit about not liking them, just that he’d, well, lied about it for years.

 

“Want something to eat?” It was their last day off, wedged between Nationals and the next phase of the competition season, and Yuri was waiting for Otabek to reveal his current scheme. He always got antsy during the brief lull after New Years, and his favorite form of stress relief was tormenting Yuri. It had been worse than usual this year – Yuri’s continuing growth spurts had led to a trainwreck of a season (the universe had something against him. Who started seriously growing when they turned _seventeen,_ just when he thought he might make it out short but unscathed), and though he’d never admit it, he appreciated Otabek’s efforts to take his mind off it.

Even if those efforts meant that every second of free time was spent looking over his shoulder.

“I could go for eggs, if you’re making them,” Otabek said from his position on the couch, Yuri’s cat asleep on his lap.

“Sounds good,” said Yuri, eyes skimming over the kitchen. “Hey, we bought eggs, right? Shit. Did I forget to grab eggs?”

“Hmm? Oh, I put them away. They’re probably in the fridge.”

“Okay then.” Yuri rolled his eyes. America and Canada had instilled Otabek with several of what Yuri thought of as very odd habits – including putting perfectly fine eggs in the refrigerator. He rummaged through the shelves until he found the carton. It felt lighter than it should have been. If the store had sold him a half empty box he would go back and yell at them, even if it was his own damn fault for not checking.

The first thing he noticed was that four eggs were missing.

The second thing he noticed was that there was something in the bottom of each of the eggless dimples.

The third thing he noticed was that those somethings had a lot of what looked like… legs.

Yuri dropped the carton, letting out a strangled gasp, somewhere halfway between a choke and a sob as the remaining eggs splattered across the floor. The spiders were motionless, safely asleep from the chill of the fridge, but he leapt back against the counter, shaking his hands as he tried to get the phantom sensation of their jerky, creeping movements off of his skin.

“Shit, Yura, are you okay?” Otabek pushed the cat from his lap and leapt up, eyes wide. “I didn’t think- oh, fuck, I didn’t know, I’ll-“ He scooped them up, bare-handed, and rushed out of the apartment.

Yuri tried to control his breathing before he hyperventilated. _Fucking spiders fucking pranks goddamn Otabek why the fuck did he do that why the fuck didn’t I just tell him I fucking hate spiders-_

He knew it wasn’t completely, entirely Otabek’s fault, but Yuri was still angry as the adrenaline rush faded from his system. Mortified and pissed off. He’d basically shrieked like a little kid in front of Otabek because he couldn’t handle a couple of _bugs_ and he couldn’t handle telling Beka that he couldn’t handle a couple of bugs.

He could hear Otabek’s footsteps outside as he ran back up the steps. He didn’t want to deal with this right now. He wanted to hug his cat and curl up in bed and pretend that he didn’t just bring shame down on his entire country.

Yuri locked the door.

The knob turned, rattled for a split second, and fell silent. Otabek knocked gently. “Yura? Are you okay?”

Yuri didn’t answer. He picked up his cat, ignoring the smears of egg on the floor, and went to his bedroom.

His phone beeped. And beeped.

 

 _Beka:_ I’m so sorry

 _Beka:_ I fucked up

 _Beka:_ Please tell me you’re doing okay

 _Beka:_ I promise I never would have done it if I knew it would freak you out

 _Beka:_ I shouldn’t have done it anyway, it was a stupid idea and I’m an idiot

 _Beka:_ I’ll clean the kitchen and get you new eggs, just let me know it’s ok to come in, you don’t even have to talk to me

 

            Yuri muted the conversation.

 

:: :: ::

 

            “Beks, what’s up?” His friend Marat picked up the phone almost immediately, despite the three hour time difference between Almaty and St. Petersburg.

            “I really, really screwed up,” Otabek whispered. “I think Yuri hates me now.”

            “Yuri? Yuri Plisetsky? Why would Yuri hate _you?_ ”

            “I- I tried to play a joke on him. It was a stupid idea and… and,” Otabek bit his lip. “He hasn’t talked to me for two days now, even at practice.”

Marat didn’t answer for a second.

“Okay. You’re freaking out, aren’t you?”

“He’s never done this to me before. I’m a terrible friend and I got carried away with the pranks because I thought he thought they were funny and what if he never talks to me again?”

“You’re freaking out, Beks. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that many words in a row before. Take a deep breath, and try to tell me what happened.”

“I. I, um. I put spiders in his egg carton. I tried to make sure he wasn’t bothered by them, but-” He winced as Marat burst out laughing. “It’s really not funny.”

“Sorry, that’s- uh. Yep, that’s not funny,” his friend replied, voice breaking slightly. “I think you just need to give him some time to chill out. He has a temper, yeah? It’s just. Well, you’re kind of an idiot when you have a crush. Your sense of humor goes from weird to _what the actual fuck._ The plastic wrap thing? That was gold. I still have the pictures you sent me. Spiders? You’re like a twenty year old middle-schooler.”

“ _What?_ ” Otabek almost dropped his phone. “But-“

“Like the time you decided to learn to pick locks to impress that one guy, because _that’s_ a logical leap to make, and then when you actually got shut out of your dorm room you refused to pick the lock because he was there and you were terrified that he’d think you were a juvenile delinquent.”

“You promised not to talk about that.”

“Or when you froze _every single one_ of Yuri’s socks in water balloons to make ice orbs last month while he was out of town.”

“Oh god, no wonder he hates me, that was-“

“Beks, I love you, but shut up,” said Marat, sighing. “I’m sure Yuri doesn’t hate you. I doubt he’s even _that_ angry about it. He just needs some space. He’s probably kinda embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed? Why?”

“… Like I said, you’re an idiot when you have a crush.”

 

:: :: ::

 

Yuri’s phone rang. _Unknown number._ He almost let it go to voicemail, before he recognized the Kazakhstan country code and curiosity got the better of him.

“Yuri Nikolaevich Plisetsky?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“This is Marat Akhmetov, Otabek’s friend. We met last summer?”

“Okay.” Yuri vaguely remembered Marat from his visit to Almaty. “What do you want?”

_Did Beka ask you to call?_

It wasn’t that Yuri was ignoring him, per se, but the wave of humiliation that rushed through him every time he thought about The Incident had rendered him all but nonfunctional whenever he saw Otabek.

He was also undeniably petty.

“It’s about Beks.” The line crackled with a sigh. “He’s really upset. And no, before you ask, I got your number from his sister, he _doesn’t_ know that I called you, and if you tell him, I will fly to Russia and kill you.”

“ _He’s_ upset?” He knew that Otabek felt bad about the attempted prank, but why would he be upset? Yuri hadn’t yelled at him, or thrown a temper tantrum – none of the usual reasons people were unhappy with him.

“Uh, _yeah._ You know how he gets when he thinks people are mad at him?”

Yuri was, in fact, familiar with that particular trait of Otabek Altin (anxiety was another one of the ways Otabek had surprised him, considering his reputation for stoicism, which was apparently actually half intense social awkwardness), but it usually cropped up with people who were _not Yuri,_ because everyone _knew_ when Yuri was pissed off. It was… loud.

“He thinks I’m that mad at him?”

“Are you a parrot or something? Yes, he thinks you’re mad at him, because you haven’t talked to him for two days,” snapped Marat. “He called me, having a panic attack, and I’d say he deserves it for being an idiot, but he’s convinced himself that you hate him and you’re never going to talk to him again.“

“Oh, shit.”

 

:: :: ::

 

The peephole in the door of Otabek’s apartment had been broken long before he moved in, making every visit an exercise in mild panic, followed by an hour-long battle of will in which he tried to convince himself to call the grumpy landlord and demand she _finally_ fix it, to save him from an early death by way of a social-anxiety-induced heart attack. However, visitors were never frequent enough to actually push him into going through with it. Mila just called and demanded he let her in, deliveries were held at the post office, and Yuri – he bit his lip – Yuri unlocked the door himself without bothering to knock.

This person, whoever they were, was evidently determined to break the entire building into splinters if he didn’t answer immediately.

Otabek pulled the door open with a sigh, and for his trouble, was almost smacked in the chin by one Yuri Plisetsky.

His stomach lurched.

“Um, hi,” he managed, before Yuri cut him off.

“I’m not mad at you even though I was kinda pissed at first, I’m embarrassed because I spent two years lying about not being afraid of spiders because I wanted you to think I was cool,” Yuri blurted, his face burning scarlet as he stared at the floor. “Cook me dinner, I’m starving.”

“… Oh.” Two days’ worth of tension left Otabek’s body all at once, leaving him lightheaded and giddy. “Sure, Yura. What do you want?”

Yuri scowled, but he looked as relieved as Otabek felt. “Not eggs.”

Otabek groaned. “Definitely not eggs. I might never eat eggs again.”

“Serves you right,” said Yuri, but his frown had softened into a tiny, worried smile. “You know I’d never cut you off like that, right? Even if you are an idiot sometimes.”

“I know,” replied Otabek softly. “I just get… yeah.”

“I’m going to punch your anxiety in the face if it ever make you think I hate you again.”

“Uh, please don't? That’s my face too, I kind of need it.” He glanced up at Yuri. “Wait, how did you figure that out? I didn’t say anything-“

Yuri pushed past him into the apartment. “I’m a genius. Now feed me.”


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [madimation](http://madimation.tumblr.com/)

This had to stop.

Or rather, the _stopping_ had to stop.

Yuri checked his shoes, finding them free of any unexpected contents (aside from the traces of glitter that, after months, had yet to fully disappear). The rest of his locker was likewise untouched, aside from a few scattered wrappers Mila had left after raiding his secret emergency chocolate stash. He’d bitch about _that_ later, even though he knew from experience that they’d be replaced with a better quality package by the next morning; it was the principle of the thing.

Last month, paranoia would have begun creeping up on him as the days passed without incident. Three nights after the end of what Yuri had begun referring to, in the privacy of his mind, as _That Thing,_ he’d caught Otabek staring into Yuri’s freezer, the mischievous gleam in his eyes tempered by hesitation and lingering anxiety.

The worst part was that Yuri couldn’t just _say_ that he missed the pranks, that he hadn’t realized how much they’d bled off his stress over his hellish train wreck of a season (thank you, growth spurts), because that would be losing, and a Plisetsky did _not_ lose prank wars.

There was only one course of action.

“Hey, Zhibek,” he said into the phone. “Your brother is a fucking moron.”

“You need me to kick his ass?” She giggled. Yuri found himself smirking at the mental image of Zhibek, three years younger and a full twelve centimeters shorter than her brother, turning her undeniably terrifying glare on Otabek. The poor boy wouldn’t last a second.

“You know that photo you showed me last summer? At Aisulu’s wedding?”

Yuri’s first time in Almaty had involved meeting not only Otabek’s mother, father, two sisters (though one was admittedly a bit preoccupied with her own marriage), but a staggering array of grandparents, great-grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, third-cousins-twice-removed, as well as various in-laws and family friends, all of whom seemed to know Yuri, Yuri’s cat, and his favorite foods. He’d ended up clinging to Zhibek when Otabek was dragged off by his mother, and they’d spent half the evening swapping stories about how damn ridiculous the Hero of Kazakhstan was behind his stoic expression and steady voice.

“If you mean _the_ photo, yes.”

“I need it.”

She sighed. “Yuri, that picture is prime Altin blackmail. I can’t just give it to you.”

“Zhi,” Yuri whined, “It’s _important._ ”

If this were anyone else, he would break out the threats, but some niggling bit of conscience told him he couldn’t cuss out his best friend’s (and maybe almost another word that started with _b-_ and ended with _–friend_ ’s) sister and likely had enough material on _him_ to fill an album.

“How about a trade?” The gleeful edge to her voice informed him that he wouldn’t be getting the better end of this deal, but sacrifices had to be made. “I _was_ gonna put it on t-shirts, but…”

“Goddammit, you make me glad I don’t have actual siblings. I’m texting you something.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replied. “Okay, check your email.”

“Got it.” Yuri grinned as a notification from his inbox popped up. “Great doing business with you, Zhibek.”

He hung up and, on impulse, played the video he’d sent to Zhibek.

 _“Zoyenka went to the vet today_. _”_ His own voice crackled through the speakers, barely comprehensible through an onslaught of giggles. _“Beka’s trying to cheer her up.”_ The frame blurred as the phone poked around a corner, revealing Otabek sitting cross-legged on the floor, nose to nose with Yuri’s cat.

 _“Mon petit chat,”_ Otabek sang quietly. Zoye stared at him, nonplussed. _“Pourquoi es-tu si trist?”_

The video shook harder as film-Yuri struggled to contain his laughter.

_“Miaou, miaou!_

_Mon petit chat,_

_Faut pas pleurer comme ça-_ Yura, stop that!” He was blushing, unable to hold back a small grin as he noticed Yuri lurking in the doorway.

 _“Make me,_ ” Yuri replied, and the video cut off as Otabek rose from the floor, raising an eyebrow at the challenge.

Part of him was loathe to share the video, which even Mila hadn’t been allowed to see, but Yuri knew that Zhibek missed her older brother; the two were close even though Otabek had moved from Almaty when she was only ten years old. _Besides,_ he told himself as he downloaded the attachment in her email, _it’s for a good cause._

:: :: ::

“Yuri?” Otabek opened the apartment door a crack, nudging the curious cat gently away from the forbidden hallway. “I brought food.”

Yuri’s flat was, as always, a mess of strewn clothing and abandoned dishes, the secondhand sofa coated with a light veneer of cat hair. It smelled of lemony soap and fresh bread – a sure sign that Yuri was stressed and had probably spent a good part of the night baking and scrubbing stains from the cramped kitchenette, the only part of his living space that was kept relatively spotless. Otabek couldn’t blame him. Europeans were coming up in only a couple of weeks, and Yuri’s indomitable drive to win had been tempered by frustration as his long-awaited growth spurts hit with the force of a steamroller.

He wanted to distract Yuri, make him laugh instead of scowl and curse, but he didn’t want to _distract_ him by going too far, crossing a line that was several meters closer than he’d thought. Jokes were only fun when they were just as amusing to the victim, and that… hadn’t quite happened. Otabek also wasn’t ready yet to breach the subject of exactly _why_ he’d taken it so far, because that meant discussing the soft smiles and casual touches, the eye contact that sparked across the rink. With their training schedules that were becoming ever more intense and all-consuming as the end of the season approached, they’d silently agreed that this was a thing for _later,_ something to grow with the spring flowers and talked about when the change in seasons brought warmth and space and time.

“Yuri, I’m going to eat your syrniki,” he called out.

“Touch my cheat food and they’ll never find your body,” came the shouted reply. “In my bedroom.”

Yuri was curled up on his bed, headphones tossed aside and an ice pack on his knee. His feet, like Otabek’s own, were covered with bruises and bandages.

“Lilia got to you today?”

“She said my oversplits were _lacking_ ,” growled Yuri.

“I thought you liked oversplits.”

“I also like being alive.”

Otabek winced in sympathy. His own flexibility was decent enough that it didn’t hinder his skating, but Yuri was regularly twisted like a rubber band to prepare for his more ballet-focused routines.

He tossed Yuri the paper bag of syrniki and flopped down on the bed. His breath caught in surprise as he glanced up at the ceiling and came face to face with… himself.

Staring down at them was one seventeen-year-old Otabek Altin, leaning against an expensive motorbike (that was, to his eternal regret, not his), breathing out a cloud of white fog.

“Zhibek finally decided to take over my PR campaign?” It was, if taken out of context, a good photo; his eyes lacked their usual deer in the headlights expression he couldn’t suppress when faced with a camera (everyone else insisted that his face was as blank as usual, but _he knew_ ), due to the simple fact that he hadn’t realized his younger sister was taking a picture. And the bike… he held back a sigh of longing. Maybe Yuri didn’t know-

“Tastes like smoking fruit loops,” Yuri said, around a mouthful of pancake, and Otabek’s ears started to burn.

“It’s cool in Almaty,” he insisted, silently cursing his friend Marat for insisting he try it, just once, no one will ever find out.

Yuri snickered. “What, vaping? Or stealing motorcycles? Did the owner know who you were when she called the police?”

“Remind me to disown my sister,” groaned Otabek, pulling one of Yuri’s pillows over his face.

“Nice of the officers to give you a lecture about how nicotine isn’t good for athletes.”

“I thought you were my friend, Plisetsky.”

“Hmm.” Otabek could hear Yuri’s grin even as he did his best to smother himself with the pillow. “You did send Grandpa a picture of me _saran wrapped to my bed._ ”

“Over a year ago.”

“A Plisetsky never forgets. Besides, he got it framed.”

Otabek stuck his hand out blindly. Yuri dropped two syrniki into his palm.

“This is war, Yura.”

“Come at me, Altin.” He could hear the smile in Yuri’s voice. Wheels began to turn in Otabek’s mind as he remembered that the cabinets in Yuri’s kitchen had _just_ enough room to fit a person, as long as they were relatively small. But…

“Are you going to take the poster down?” Even if he couldn’t see it, he could _feel_ his own teenage face staring down at them.

Yuri hummed, contemplating. “I dunno, I kind of like it.”

“ _Yura._ ”

“All’s fair in love and war, Beka.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
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> Note: If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I'm reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with whisper and I will appreciate it but not respond!

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, and you want something kind of like this but with 5,000% more angst, please drop by and check out [**A Heart Beats At Night**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9342170), which is set in the same universe but with more vampires and (eventually) kissing.
> 
> This story is part of **[the LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject),** whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors.  
>  This author invites:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
> 

> 
> This author replies to comments.


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